Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  "Please," said her husband—Metalan—to the outlanders. There were three of them, two men and a woman, all wearing trousers. Rugged folk, not like the other foreigners, with their delicate features and too-fine silks. Illuminated Ones, those others sometimes called themselves. These three were more ordinary.

  "Please," Metalan repeated. "My family . . ."

  He was a good man. Or he had been once, back when he'd been strong and fit. Now he seemed a shell of that man, his cheeks sunken. His once-vibrant blue eyes stared absently much of the time. Haunted. That look came from watching three of his children die in eighteen months' time. Though Metalan was a head taller than any of the outlanders, he seemed to grovel before them.

  The lead outlander—a man with a bushy beard and wide, honest eyes—shook his head. He returned to Metalan the sack full of stones. "The Raven Empress, may she always draw breath, forbids it. No trading with Aiel. We could be stripped of our charter for talking to you."

  "We have no food," Metalan said. "My children are starving. These stones contain ore. I know that it is the type for which you search. I spent weeks gathering it. Give us a bit of food. Something. Please."

  "Sorry, friend," the lead outlander said. "It isn't worth trouble with the Ravens. Go on your way. We don't want an incident." Several outlanders approached from behind, one carrying an axe, two others with hiss-staves.

  Her husband slumped. Days of travel, weeks of searching for the stones. For nothing. He turned and walked back to her. In the distance, the sun was setting. Once he reached her, she and Meise joined him, walking away from the outlander camp.

  Meise began to sniffle, but neither of them had the will or strength to carry her. About an hour away from the outlander camp, her husband found a hollow in a rock shelf. They settled in, not making a fire. There was nothing to burn.

  Norlesh wanted to cry. But . . . feeling anything seemed difficult. "I'm so hungry," she whispered.

  "I will trap something in the morning," her husband said, staring up at the stars.

  "We haven't caught anything in days," she said.

  He didn't reply.

  "What are we going to do?" she whispered. "We haven't been able t keep a home for our people since my greatmother Tava's day. If we gather they attack us. If we wander the Waste, we die off. They won't trade with us. They won't let us cross the mountains. What are we going to do?"

  His response was to lie down, turning away from her.

  Her tears did come then, quiet, weak. They rolled down her cheeks as she undid her shirt to nurse Garlvan, though she had no suck for him.

  He didn't move. He didn't latch on. She lifted his small form and realized that he was no longer breathing. Somewhere along the walk to the hollow, he had died without her realizing it.

  The most frightening part was how difficult she found it to summon any sorrow at the death.

  Aviendha's foot hit the flagstones. Around her, the forest of glass columns shimmered with prismatic color. It was like standing in the middle of an Illuminator's firework. The sun was high in the sky, cloud cover remarkably gone.

  She wanted to leave the square forever. She had been prepared for the knowledge that the Aiel had once followed the Way of the Leaf. That knowledge wasn't very disturbing. They would soon fulfill their toh.

  But this? These scattered and broken wretches? People who didn't stand up for themselves, who begged, who didn't know how to survive off the land? To know that these were her ancestors was a shame she nearly could not bear. It was good that Rand al'Thor had not revealed this past to the Aiel.

  Could she flee? Run from the plaza and see no more? If it grew any worse, the shame would overwhelm her. Unfortunately, she knew that there was only one way out, now that she'd begun.

  Gritting her teeth, she took a step forward.

  She was Tava, fourteen years old and screaming in the night as she ran from her burning house. The entire valley—really a canyon, with steep sides—was in flames. Every building in the fledgling hold had been set afire. Nightmarish creatures, with sinuous necks and wide wings, flapped in the night above, bearing riders with bows, spears, and strange new weapons that made a hissing sound when they fired.

  Tava cried, searching for her family, but the hold was a mass of chaos and confusion. Some few Aiel warriors resisted, but anyone who raised a spear fell moments later, killed by arrow or by one of the invisible shots from the new weapons.

  An Aiel man fell before her, corpse rolling on the ground. Tadvishm had been his name, a Stone Dog. It was one of the few societies which still maintained an identity. Most warriors no longer held to a society; they made brothers and sisters of those with whom they camped. All too often, those camps were scattered anyway.

  This hold was to have been different, secret, deep within the Waste. How had their enemies found them?

  A child of only two years was crying. She dashed to him, snatching him from where he lay near the flames. Their homes burned. The wood had been scavenged with difficulty from the mountains on the eastern edge of the Waste.

  She held the child close and ran toward the deeper recesses of the canyon. Where was her father? With a sudden whoosh of sound, one of the nightmarish creatures landed before her, the burst of wind making her skirt flap. A fearsome warrior sat upon the creature's back, helmet like that of an insect, mandibles sharp and jagged. He lowered his hissing staff toward her. She cried out in terror, huddling around the crying child and closing her eyes.

  The hissing sound never came. At a grunt and a sudden screech from the serpentine beast, she looked up and saw a figure struggling with the outlander. The firelight showed the face of her father, clean-shaven as the old traditions dictated. The beast beneath the two men lurched, throwing both to the ground.

  A few moments later, her father rose, holding the invader's sword in his hands, its length stained dark. The invader did not move, and behind them the beast leaped into the air, howling. Tava looked up, and saw that it was following the rest of the pack. The invaders were withdrawing, leaving a broken people with burning homes.

  She looked down again. The scene horrified her; so many bodies, doz-ens, lay bleeding on the ground. The invader that her father had killed appeared to be the only enemy that had fallen.

  "Gather sand!" her father—Rowahn—roared. "Quench the flames!"

  Tall—even for an Aiel—with striking red hair, he wore the old clothing of brown and tan, boots tied high to his knees. That clothing marked

  one as Aiel, therefore many had abandoned it. Being known as Aiel meant death.

  Her father had inherited his clothing from his grandfather, along with a charge. Follow the old ways. Remember ji'e'toh. Fight and maintain honor. Though he had been in the hold for only a few days, the others listened when he yelled for them to put out the fires. Tava returned the child to a grateful mother and then helped gather sand and dirt.

  A few hours later, a tired and bloodied people gathered in the center of the canyon, regarding with dull eyes what they had worked for months to build. It had been wiped out in a single night. Her father still carried the sword. He used it to direct the people. Some of the old ones said that a sword was bad luck, but why would they say that? It was only a weapon.

  "We must rebuild," her father said, surveying the wreckage.

  "Rebuild?" said a soot-stained man. "The granary was the first to burn! There is no food!"

  "We will survive," her father said. "We can move deeper into the Waste."

  "There is nowhere else to go!" another man said. "The Raven Empire has sent word to the Far Ones, and they hunt us at the eastern border!"

  "They find us whenever we gather!" another cried.

  "It is a punishment!" her father said. "But we must endure!"

  The people looked at him. Then, in pairs or small groups, they began to walk away.

  "Wait," her father said, raising his hand. "We must stay together, keep fighting! The clan—"

  "We are not a clan," an ashen man said. "I c
an survive better on my own. No more fighting. They beat us when we fight."

  Her father lowered the sword, its tip hitting the ground. Tava moved up beside him, worried as she watched the others walk their ways into the night. The air was still thick with smoke. The departing Aiel were shadows, melting into darkness, like swirls of dust blown on the wind. They didn't pause to bury their dead.

  Her father bowed his head and dropped the sword to the ash-covered ground.

  There were tears in Aviendha's eyes. There was no shame at crying over this tragedy. She had feared the truth, and she could no longer deny it.

  Those had been Seanchan raiders, riding atop raken. The Raven Empire, the Lightmakers from her first vision, were the Seanchan—and they hadn't

  existed until the middle of the current Age, when Artur Hawkwings armies had crossed the oceans. .

  She was not seeing the deep past of her people. She was seeing their future.

  Her first time through the pillars, each step had taken her backward, moving her through time toward the Age of Legends. It appeared that this time, the visions had started at a distant point in the future, and were working back toward her day, each vision jumping back a generation or two. Tears streaking her face, she took the next step.

  CHAPTER

  49

  Court of the Sun

  She was Ladalin, Wise One of the Taardad Aiel. How she wished that she had been able to learn to channel. That was a shameful thought, wishing for a talent one did not have, but she could not deny it.

  She sat in the tent, feeling regretful. If she'd been able to work with the One Power, perhaps she could have done more to help the wounded. She could have remained young to lead her clan, and perhaps her bones would not ache so. Old age was a frustration when there was so much to do.

  The tent walls rustled as the remaining clan chiefs settled down. There was only one other Wise One in the room, Mora of the Goshien Aiel. She could not channel either. The Seanchan were particularly determined when it came to killing or capturing all Aiel—male or female—who showed any talent with the One Power.

  It was a sorry group gathered in the tent. A one-armed young soldier entered with a warm brazier and set it in the middle of them, then retreated. Ladalin's mother had spoken of the days when there had still been gai'shain to do such work. Had there really been Aiel, man or Maiden, who had not been needed for the war against the Seanchan?

  Ladalin reached forward to warm her hands at the brazier, fingers knotted with age. She'd held a spear as a young woman; most women did, before they married. How could a woman remain behind when the Seanchan used female soldiers and their damane with such effectiveness?

  She'd heard stories about her mother and greatmother's days, but they seerned incredible. The war was all Ladalin had ever known. Her first memories as a little girl were of the Almoth strikes. Her youth had been spent training. She had fought in the battles focused around the land that had been known as Tear.

  Ladalin had married and raised children, but had focused every breath on the conflict. Aiel or Seanchan. Both knew that, eventually, only one of the two would remain.

  It was looking more and more like the Aiel would be the ones forced out. That was another difference between her day and her mother's day. Her mother had not spoken of failure; Ladalin's lifetime was filled with milestones of withdrawal and retreat.

  The others seemed absorbed in their thoughts. Three clan chiefs and two Wise Ones. They were all that remained of the Council of Twenty-Two. Highland winds seeped through the tent flaps, chilling her back. Tamaav was the last to arrive. He looked as old as she felt, his face scarred and his left eye lost in battle. He sat down on the rock. The Aiel no longer carried rugs or cushions. Only the essentials could be transported.

  "The White Tower has fallen," he said. "My scouts informed me not an hour ago. I trust their information." He had always been a blunt man, and a good friend to her husband, who had fallen last year.

  "Then with it goes our last hope," said Takai, the youngest of the clan chiefs. He was the third chief of the Miagoma in as many years.

  "Speak not so," Ladalin said. "There is always hope."

  "They have pushed us all the way to these cursed mountains," Takai said. "The Shiande and the Daryne are no more. That leaves only five clans, and one of those is broken and scattered. We are beaten, Ladalin."

  Tamaav sighed. She'd have lain a bridal wreath at his feet, had the years been earlier and the times different. Her clan needed a chief. Her son still thought to become the one, but with the recent Seanchan capture of Rhuidean, the clans were uncertain how to choose new leaders.

  "We must retreat into the Three-fold Land," Mora said in her soft, matronly voice. "And seek penance for our sins."

  "What sins?" Takai snapped.

  "The Dragon wanted peace," she replied.

  "The Dragon left us!" Takai said. "I refuse to follow the memory of a man my greatfathers barely knew. We made no oaths to follow his foolish pact. We—"

  "Peace, Takai," Jorshem said. The last of the three clan chiefs was a

  small, hawk-faced man with some Andoran blood in him from his greatfa-ther. "Only the Three-fold Land holds any hope for us, now. The war against the Ravens has been lost."

  The tent fell still.

  "They said they'd hunt us," Takai said. "When they demanded surrender, they warned us against retreat. You know that. They Said they would destroy any place where three Aiel gathered."

  "We will not surrender," Ladalin said firmly. More firmly than she felt to be honest.

  "Surrender would make us gai'shain" Tamaav said. They used the word to mean one without honor, though that was not the way Ladalins mother had used it. "Ladalin. What is your advice?"

  The other four looked at her. She was of the lineage of the Dragon, one of the last living. The other three lines had been killed off.

  "If we become slaves to the Seanchan, the Aiel as a people will be no more," she said. "We cannot win, so we must retreat. We will return to the Three-fold Land and build up our strength. Perhaps our children can fight where we cannot."

  Silence again. They all knew her words to be optimistic at best. After decades of war, the Aiel were a bare fraction of the number they had once been.

  Seanchan channelers were brutal in their effectiveness. Though the Wise Ones and Dragon Blooded used the One Power in battle, it was not enough. Those cursed a'dam Each channeler the Aiel lost to capture was eventually turned against them.

  The real turning point in the war had been the entry of the other nations. After that, the Seanchan had been able to seize wetlander peoples and cull more channelers from their ranks. The Ravens were unstoppable; now that Tar Valon had fallen, every realm in the wetlands was subject to the Seanchan. Only the Black Tower still fought, though the Asha'man did so in secret, as their fortress had fallen years before.

  Aiel could not fight in secret. There was no honor to that. Of course, what did honor matter now? After deaths numbering in the hundreds of

  thousands? After the burning of Cairhien and the scouring

  ofIllian? It had

  been twenty years since the Seanchan had gained the Andoran war machines. The Aiel had been tumbling toward defeat for decades; it was a testament to their tenacious nature that they had lasted so long.

  "This is his fault," Takai said, still looking sullen. "The Car'a'carn could have led us to glory, but he abandoned us."

  "His fault?" Ladalin said, understanding—perhaps for the first time-

  why that statement was wrong. "No. Aiel take responsibility for them-selves. This is our fault, and not that of my distant greatfather. We have forgotten who we are. We are without honor."

  "Our honor was taken from us," Takai said, sighing as he stood. "People of the Dragon indeed. What is the good of being his people? We were drafted to be a spear, the legends say, forged in the Three-fold Land. He used us, then cast us away. What is a discarded spear to do, but go to war?"

  W
hat indeed, Ladalin thought. The Dragon had demanded peace, thinking that it would bring happiness to the Aiel. But how could they be happy, when the Light-cursed Seanchan were in the land? Her hatred of the invaders ran deep.

  Perhaps that hatred had destroyed the Aiel. She listened to the wind howl as Takai stalked from the tent. On the morrow the Aiel would return to the Three-fold Land. If they would not accept peace themselves, it seemed they would have to have it forced upon them.

  Aviendha took another step forward. She'd nearly reached the very center of the columns, and shards of light sparkled around her.

  Her tears flowed freely now. She felt like a child. Being Ladalin had been worse than the others, for in her, Aviendha had seen hints of true Aiel ways, but corrupted, as if to make mockery. The woman had thought of war and associated it with honor, but hadn't understood what honor was. No gai'shain? Retreat? There had been no mention of toh. This was battle stripped completely of point or reason.

  Why fight? For Ladalin, it had been about hatred of the Seanchan. There was war because there had always been war.

  How? How had this happened to the Aiel?

  Aviendha took a step forward.

  She was Oncala, Maiden of the Spear. She would eventually give the spear up and marry, just as her mother had and her mother's mother before her. But now was the time to fight.

  She strode through the streets of Caemlyn, her near-sister carrying the banner of the Dragon to announce her lineage. Next to Oncala was the man for whom she would likely give up her spears. Hehyal, Dawn Runner, had killed more Seanchan than any of his society, gaining much ji. He had been granted permission to travel to Rhuidean last year to become clan chief.

  Rhuidean. The city was besieged by Seanchan. Oncala sneered. Sean-chan had no honor. They had been told that Rhuidean was a place for peace. The Aiel did not assault the palace in Ebou Dar. The Seancha should not attack Rhuidean.

  They were lizards. It was a source of constant frustration that, after de-cades of war, the battle lines remained nearly the same as they had been after her greatfather went to Shayol Ghul.